


Dreaming of Dystopia

by letssendacountrysomecupcakes



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2018-01-01 23:06:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letssendacountrysomecupcakes/pseuds/letssendacountrysomecupcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four years after BL/Ind re-levels the desert, there have been no signs of the Four, or the chances of them ever returning. Chemical Blast, a 15 year old Killjoy who left Battery City after hearing her first WKIL transmission, sets out to find the diner, or what's left of it. What she finds instead will (hopefully) change the world as she knows it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreaming of Dystopia

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story posted on here and this chapter's pretty short, but my friend and wonderful beta convinced me that cliffhanger would be good. I don't know if I'll put the Four in or not but we'll see!  
> ***EDIT***  
> I'm definitely putting the Four in, this'll be fun!

My name is Chemical Blast and I’m 15 years old today. My friends call me Chem or Blast. Well, they would if friends were even a possibility in this wasteland. I’ve been on my own since I can remember, and I promised myself that I’d find the diner by today. I have a feeling I’m on the right track, but no one’s been able to find it since it was leveled so I don’t want to get my hopes up. I’ve been on the same trail for days, and I’m running lower on food than usual. I’ll have to turn back for sure if I don’t find it soon, not that I can’t go without food for a few days, I have before, and you sure as hell will again.  
The desert isn’t the kind of place you can fuck around in, seeing as if the Dracs don’t get you, it’ll be the sun, or the air, or the heat. Death is such a big part of the world now, or what’s left of it, that the question isn’t if you’ll die soon. It’s what will you be doing when you die. For the cushy, elite types in Bat City, it’s easy. They’ll live their fucking lives and do what they do and never have to get their hands even remotely dirty. The City likes to pretend that death doesn’t exist, or that it’s something that only happens to old people. But they ignore us. The kids of the Zones. The little Runners, Killjoys, Crash Queens, and Motor Babies. We die every day, more and more of us, but we’re confident, so confident, that it won’t have been in vain. That we’ve spent every moment we can trying to bring BL/Ind down.  
We don’t ask for much, as people. And what we do ask for is simple. Freedom, our mental health, not to be force fed drugs by a government company that wants nothing but to control us, simple things. Rights. Ability to wear color. There’s a saying here; Color Is The New Danger. That saying is the most accurate one I’ve heard in a while. The best sayings come from a few years ago, though. When the Fab Four were here. The Fab Four, or The Fabulous Killjoys, were the first Killjoys. They came up with the name because the leader was a visionary. An artist. One of the best, I think, which is why I have to find the fucking diner!  
It’s been four years since the Four disappeared. Not that I can remember it, zombified as I was during the majority of my life. I lived in Battery City until BL/Ind decided to re-level the desert, and I heard my first WKIL transmission.

***

*Radio crackles* This is Doctor Death Defying with an emergency broadcast. All you Tumbleweeds with shelters, you’d better get in them right the fuck now. BLI’s bringing ‘em down hard and it aint gonna be milkshake. If you’re hearing this in the City, you’ll know what I’m saying soon enough. Get out. *Radio crackles, static continues* My breath comes fast, what I’ve heard penetrating through the haze of drugs. I can barely process the words, programming and drugs trying to block them out and make me report it. I know I won’t, though. I’m getting out.

***

The sun shines in my face, bright and deadly. I’ve got my bandanna, my sunglasses, and I’m fully covered, but it’s too much. I need to find somewhere to rest or I’ll really be fucked. There’s nothing but sand in front of me, the clear horizon and level ground suggesting for a long time, but as I look to my left, I see the remains of something. Something old and rusted, from the looks of it, and perfect for hiding from the sun. The inside of the hunk of metal is warped, and there are some maybe-sleeping-but-probably-dead Dracs. I shoot them to make sure and crawl under, into the shade. Slumped against the body of the metal, I figure I’ll keep watch until the sun goes down and then keep searching, but as time passes my body decides that it’s time to break and I slump, eyes falling shut.  
My eyes snap open to the sound of muffled voices. My hands automatically go to my gun, but it seems they’ve been tied. “Zone Runner of BL/Ind?” I try to call out, but my voice comes out a croak, side effect of sleeping in the dust. I am well and truly fucked.


End file.
